Читать книгу Indulge Me - Joanne Rock - Страница 11

TYLER HOUSTON finished sanding the upper sill of a second-story window, climbed down and moved the ladder to the last one on that floor. For the third day in a row he’d lingered here after the other guys had gone. Partly because rather than being a professional painter like his coworkers, he was a soon-to-be college professor—and yes, he did like the sound of that—earning extra cash over the summer before he started teaching economics at UWM in the fall. The guys kidded him about his snail-speed painting, but after so many years of book study it was a refreshing break to work with his body again instead of just his mind.

As he’d said, that was partly why he stayed late. To catch up. But only partly.

The other “partly” had to do with the woman this house belonged to. He’d been attracted to plenty of women in his life. Some based purely on appearance, seen at a distance or seen up close. Some whose personality appealed and whose looks seemed to morph into loveliness the more he got to know them. But rarely the kind of punch-to-the-gut sizzle he experienced with this woman. Even his attraction to Annie Phillips, his supposed-to-be fiancée who’d busted his heart wide open a year ago, had taken hold of him slowly.

Hardly Mr. Smooth, he still could generally hold his end up in a conversation. He liked people, enjoyed finding out about them, listening to their stories, figuring out what made them tick. Around this woman, he’d been able only to comment moronically about paint. Compliment her color choice. Admire her house. Wax philosophical about wood stain and window glazing. Never even asked her name. Worse, he’d kept laughing nervously—he would not use the term giggle. Bad enough when she had on her sunglasses, but when she took them off and looked at him with those blue-gray eyes…

Of course she’d been completely cool, able to look at him directly, to speak coherently without giggling—er, nervous laughter. Periodically she’d toss her heavy dark hair back as if it annoyed her by continually creeping over her shoulders. Even that was sexy to him.

Earlier today, warmer even than yesterday once the cloud cover passed on to the east, she’d been sitting in her usual lounge chair—in jeans and a large man’s shirt that made him jealous of whoever had given it to her—reading a book and listening to an iPod. He’d managed to avoid looking at her for the most part, but his gaze was jerked over when she’d sat up abruptly, put the book down and started unbuttoning the shirt.

That got his attention. Then the shirt was tossed aside and he nearly gouged the wood of the sill he was scraping when she hiked up the tight, fiery-orange-red top underneath, yanked it over her head and flung it to the side as if it harbored bees.

While his tongue had lolled out of his mouth—figuratively speaking—she’d calmly picked up her book and settled back down.

He’d worked particularly slowly after that, at least until she disappeared back into the house a while earlier. Because underneath she wore a bikini top that she filled out like…like…

Poetic words failed him. “Like beautiful breasts in a bikini top,” was about as lyrical a description as he could manage.

Clearly he’d gone over the edge. Next he’d be like Katie, his younger sister, who claimed to have known the second she met Edwin, now her husband of two years, that he was the love of her life.

Uh-huh.

If Tyler were a different kind of scientist, he’d do research into why and how two people could produce such sparks. Or rather how one person could produce them in another, since he had no way of knowing if the ones he felt were reciprocated.

He started scraping the final window to what must be her bedroom, the sun still out but the air rapidly cooling toward evening. The last few days had been warm, though Milwaukee hung on to chilly nights until close to the start of summer. Last month he’d moved back here to his hometown and only a block away from Ms. Bikini in order to—

The corner of his eye caught movement beyond the old-fashioned slightly wavy glass.

Her. Coming into her bedroom. What was her name? He was dying to know. Something sexy and slightly old-fashioned, like Rosemary. She walked in and passed the window, still in those jeans, low-cut and tight, still in that bikini top, again under the man’s shirt, which flared open when she moved and which continued to make him jealous. Who had given it to her? Was she still involved with him?

Tyler really needed to pay attention to this window or he’d be here all night. And not the way he’d like to be, in Rosemary’s…er, company, but out here standing on a ladder with only a scraper for intimacy.

So he paid attention to the window. He really did. But his peripheral vision was working, too, and kept track of her. Then he had to glance right at her just once, to confirm if what he thought he’d seen was in fact what he thought he’d seen.

Because what he thought he’d seen was her shirt fluttering to the floor.

Yes.

The shirt.

On the floor.

Worse—no, better—no, worse—her hands were now at the fastenings of her jeans. He scraped extra loud, making sure his knuckles rapped “clumsily” on the glass so she’d realize he was there and that he could…

Her jeans traveled down long, long, strong legs, one of which stepped out of them, followed by the other.

…see. He could see. He could do nothing but see. Dark wavy hair streaming down to her collarbone, skin a light shade of gold, broad shoulders, slender waist, toned ass…

Her hands reached around to the back hook of her bathing suit top.

Ho-ly sh—

Wait. He was not behaving like the gentleman his mother had raised.

“Hey.” He tapped on the window. No reaction. He tapped harder. “Hey.”

How could she possibly not know he was there? He didn’t see any earbuds or the cord of an iPod. She must be able to hear him knocking. She must know he was there.

The bikini top slid to the ground. Which meant…

She knew he was there.

He put the scraper down on the sill. Tyler had never been like his late older brother Cam, whom women tried to seduce at various times, like, oh, say, whenever he was awake. If this was business as usual for painters, maybe Tyler should switch careers. Though he hadn’t gotten this…uh, lucky when he’d painted houses in college.

Maybe because he’d never painted for anyone like Rosemary before. Not just beauty, not just body, something else. A familiarity, a sense that he knew her even having just met her. Knew she was a good person, knew he could trust her, knew they had things in common. How could he possibly know any of that? He couldn’t. He was projecting. The connection was purely physical, animal, primal. Her hormones fit his, her pheromones broadcasted to his frequency, her…uh…her…

…breasts, God, her breasts. Naked, they tilted, slid, hung lushly as she bent to pick up her top. His throat became dry. She tossed her hair, arched her back, slid her hands up her stomach to cup, then cover, then caress them.

His throat became drier. Desert dry. His cock swelled. He wanted to touch her more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. If he wasn’t put off by the concept of deep, possibly fatal lacerations from broken glass, he’d dive through her window and ravish her.

She swayed dreamily to some inner music, fingering her nipples, smile curving her lips, her body in profile. She still hadn’t looked at him. He still hadn’t looked away.

Her hips started to move, small, then larger circles. He let out a deep helpless groan he hadn’t been planning to let out. He wanted to grab hold of his dictator dick, which was ordering in no uncertain terms that its pain be relieved in whatever way possible, preferably in some way involving the wonder that was Rosemary.

Her hands left her breasts, which suited him fine. The easier to see her with, my dear, and the view was spectacular. Except then her hands took a trip to the sides of her bikini bottoms and began to edge them down, one side a fraction of an inch, then the other, as her hips continued their ’round and ’round and back and forth and forward and back journey, a journey he wanted desperately to join them on because he knew what destination they’d lead him to.

The bikini slid the last several smooth inches down her thighs, knees, calves, ankles and hit the floor. She turned and faced him, making direct eye contact through the glass. Well…eventual direct eye contact. His eyes were busy briefly before they made it up to hers. He was a guy, he couldn’t help it.

Silence. Stillness. Emotions swirling in him—desire, and something softer, like tenderness, which he didn’t understand, hadn’t felt for anyone since Annie, and not even for her this soon after they’d met.

The scraper chose that moment to slide off the uneven stone sill and clatter to the ground. He didn’t blame it. There wasn’t much holding him up, either—with the exception of the obvious, which had no trouble standing straight and proud.

Now what?

Okay, he wasn’t that lame. He knew what. But should he? He was working here; he was her employee in a sense. Maybe she was one of those women who seduced then cried rape. A charge like that could ruin his career.

But he knew she wasn’t. How? He didn’t know. He knew being with her would be carnal and exciting and sweet all at the same time, and he didn’t know how he knew that, either.

He also didn’t know how he was going to face his sister, who’d said all these same stupid and illogical things about her husband hours after they’d met, which had precipitated the most bitter fight he and Katie had ever had as siblings, one that worsened when she’d eloped and one from which they still hadn’t recovered, to both their sadness. But so far, not regret.

His feet seemed to have decided what to do, or maybe it was that other part of him. He nodded at Rosemary and climbed down the ladder, suddenly aware of his less-than-fresh condition, having rolled out of bed at the last possible second into his clothes and a cup of coffee to stand in the sun all day.

Ripe, to say the least.

Still led by his feet or maybe the part that stuck out the farthest and felt the most eager, he found her back door unlocked, found the oak staircase and climbed toward heaven.

At the doorway to her room, he stopped. A double room, a master bedroom suite in addition to the other two bedrooms he’d glimpsed. Unusual for these old houses, which usually fit only two bedrooms upstairs. Beautiful room, hardwood floors, decorative molding and thick solid doors. She’d decorated in a way that suited his taste—dark wood furniture, classic prints on the walls, colorful rugs, subdued rose-beige walls—nothing too modern or too girlie.

That analysis took him all of five seconds, which was all he was willing to dedicate to the decor. The woman interested him far more.

He walked through the outer room and paused at the arched entrance to her bedroom. She lay on the king-size bed, modestly covered by a sheet, expression slightly apprehensive, which put him at ease. If she was nervous then she wasn’t a habitual man-eater.

“Hi.” He grinned. He couldn’t help it, but at least he didn’t giggle. “You, uh, caught my eye in here.”

She laughed, which he liked. Not nervously, but as if she understood and enjoyed his understatement. “Noticed me, did you?”

“I don’t think I’ve noticed anything quite that much in a long time.”

“Mmm, really?”

“Mmm, really.” He moved forward until his thighs in their shorts rested against the bottoms of her feet. Now she even looked familiar. Had he seen her before? But there’d been no moment of recognition when he’d first set eyes on her three days earlier. “I was wondering…”

“Yes?”

“If there was something you needed my help doing.”

Her eyes stayed on his, her hand pushed up into her hair as she adjusted her head on the pillow. “There is, yes.”

“What’s that?” He reached down, rested his hands lightly on her ankles.

“I want to come.”

Sexual adrenaline surged. He made himself look calm. “And you don’t want to do that alone?”

“Not this time, no.”

“Hmm.” He pretended to consider. “You know, I think I can help you.”

The touch of shyness in her smile pierced him. “I thought maybe you could.”

“But…I could use a shower first.”

“Oh.” She bunched her lips as if trying to tolerate pain. “I’m not sure I can wait that long.”

He gave her foot an affectionate squeeze. “Trust me, you’ll be happier if I’m clean.”

“Yes. Okay.” She let out a long sigh of near despair.

“Bathroom’s to the right and straight ahead. Clean towels in the closet next to it. And, Garrett?”

“Garrett?”

“My name for you. It means ‘with a mighty spear.’”

He laughed—nervously. Though mighty was open to interpretation. “Yes, Rosemary.”

“Rosemary?”

“Mine for you.” He realized she was waiting expectantly. “It means Rose…Mary.”

Her brief laughter turned into the smile that was way too fast becoming familiar and dear to him. “Good enough. Now go. And don’t forget to come back. This is my first-ever seduction and I want to make sure it happens.”

He nodded and left the room before his latest ridiculous surge of emotion became visible. He was her first. God, he needed to get a grip.

Showering at the speed of light wasn’t humanly possible, but his didn’t happen much slower. He didn’t bother putting his sweaty paint-smelling clothes back on but wrapped the thick, generous towel around his waist. A glance in the mirror, wondering what the hell she saw in what he’d always considered average looks and build. Maybe she considered him a sure thing for her first attempt at seduction, given how much virtual drooling he’d done over her?

He’d rather think there was something powerful and exciting between them. Which would most likely get more powerful and more exciting in the very near future.

The hardwood creaked under his feet in that comforting way of old houses, to remind those inside not to forget their surroundings.

“Hi.” Rosemary sounded shy again.

“I’m clean.”

“So you are.” One dark brow arched briefly. “While I am still feeling pretty dirty.”

He knelt on the edge of the bed then stretched out beside her, no longer nervous, thank God, though he usually was the first time with someone, certainly had been a wreck with Annie. “I promised to help you with that. And I will.”

“Very grateful.” She lay on her side, facing him, both hands under her cheek. “I was serious when I said I’ve never done this before.”

“Had sex with a stranger?”

“I did that once. In college. But I was drunk and he was, too, and I bet neither of us remembers much about it. Probably just as well.” She considered him thoughtfully. “It’s funny, you don’t seem like a stranger. But I’m sure I don’t know you.”

“I’m sure I’d remember you.”

“Thank you.” She blushed and lowered her eyes, which made an unbearably appealing contrast to her boldness. “I meant, I’ve never taken the initiative like this with someone I didn’t know.”

“And?”

She shrugged. “So far, so good. You haven’t killed me.”

“Trust me, that’s the furthest thing from my mind.” He touched her hair, stroked it off her face, down the back of her head, over her shoulders and onto the bare skin of her back under the cool cotton sheet, stroked there, up and down, easing any tension with his fingers. “But if anything feels wrong at any point, tell me. You don’t have to do this.”

“Mmm, I definitely do. I like the way you touch me.” She arched into his fingers, stretched her long, beautiful spine.

“This is only the beginning of how I want to touch you.” His voice came out lower and more earnestly than he meant it to. He reached farther, to the curve of her lower back, then dared a slow glide over her firm shapely rear, which not only brought a sexy “Mmm” out of her, but also made her squirm closer and start her soft graceful hands on an exploration of their own. Of him.

Taking this as slowly as he wanted to might result in his death.

He tugged the sheet off her and pulled her flush against him, pressing his erection rhythmically against her, making sure he was stimulating her where it did the most good, tormenting himself in the sweetest possible way. Then he gathered her thick hair between his fingers, traced his thumbs along her jaw and did what he’d wanted to do since seeing her the first time. He kissed her full, tempting mouth.

The connection was immediate and electric, traveling through their lips, down his body, taking him over. He kissed her again and again, rolled her impatiently onto her back and followed to cover her, still tasting and fitting their lips together at every possible angle until the waves of eroticism and some other nameless feeling were so strong he had to stop.

He drew back slightly, breathing hard, feeling awed, met the awe in her eyes and became aware of the heaving rhythm of her breath, too. Both. They both felt it.

“Whoa.” She clasped her hands behind his neck and laughed uncertainly. “I guess I picked you for a reason.”

“Fate.” He didn’t believe in fate or any of the woo-woo crap that dominated his sister’s world, but the second he said the word he felt it was true.

Her eyes became cautious and he made himself grin to show he was kidding. Ha, ha. Fate. Ha, ha.

What the hell was the matter with him? He was a very practical down-to-earth guy who viewed the world in practical and often purely scientific terms.

“Oh, um, here.” She rummaged under the pillow and came up with a row of condoms, each in its black foil package. Speaking of practical. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be prepared so I made sure I was.”

“You planned well.” He lifted off her and took the strip.

“Only since yesterday.” She watched him open a packet. “I was lying on the lawn and fantasizing about you, and then I thought why not?”

“Why not?” He rolled on the condom then dragged his finger in a slow zigzag down from her neck, spiraling up each breast, meandering over her stomach and gently parting the lips of her sex. Her eyes closed and he watched her face, his fingers traveling by instinct, by touch, manipulating her softness, dipping into the tight entrance for moisture, spreading it outward again and again until her clit was slippery and firm.

Her head lifted from the pillow then sank, lashes dark on her cheek, a frown of concentration forming a furrow between her brows. It hit him that he would still want to know her when time had made the furrow permanent, would still want to be here touching her, watching the flush bloom on her face and her lips part. He’d tried to picture himself and Annie old together even up until the day he asked her to marry him, but it hadn’t seemed possible they’d ever be anything but young.

He moved over Rosemary, spread her legs gently. Her eyes opened and he sank not only into her body but almost as blissfully into her gaze before he began a slow rhythm. She joined it and he was quite sure he had known her a long time and would know her a lot longer, that they’d make love like this many, many times and it would always be this exciting, hot and sweet.

His cheek found hers; he listened to her breath speed and slow, felt her body eventually starting to strain toward her climax. Sliding his hands under her, he tilted her pelvis up, raised himself slightly, increased his pace and heard her low moan with satisfaction. Pleasing her was all he cared about right now, giving her what she’d asked from him. Then he wanted to give her a lot more than that.

Her eyes closed; her hands scrabbled across the sheets. She gripped them and her hips pushed up hard. He bit his lip, willing himself to wait…wait…wait…

And then her eyes shot wide; her head lifted, mouth opened in a silent “Oh,” and he felt her build, hold and go over. He fought against his own orgasm as long as he could stand it, savoring their connection, wanting this time to last forever. She gave a beautiful satisfied moan, whispered something he only barely caught about how perfectly he filled her and how much she loved feeling him inside her, and his control was gone. His climax burst out like a horse from a starting gate, a deep, shuddering release that went on and on and on. In the middle of such perfect ecstasy as he strained against her, trying to keep her closer than was physically possible, it occurred to him that he loved her and would always love her and somehow had always loved her.

She let her hands fall to the side, smile on her lips, flush on her cheeks, and stretched beneath him. Her breathing slowed gradually. Her smile stayed in place. She opened her eyes and he was stunned by their warmth and glow. His love. His one and only love.

Then she blinked.

“Hot damn. That orgasm nearly took my head off.” She grinned at him, apparently completely in control of herself and her emotions. “Was that not fabulous?”

“It was.” His voice was husky; he felt dazed and stupid.

“Fabulous.”

“Whew. I definitely picked the right guy.” She moved as if she wanted him off her, so he rolled to one side, spent and confused. “Want a glass of water? I’m parched.”

“Sure. Yeah.” He sat up, nodding his thanks when she tossed him a box of tissues.

“Man.” She took a couple of bowlegged steps and laughed.

“I can barely walk. You are incredible.”

Right. Incredible. Totally. Stud of the month, in fact. He yanked out a couple of tissues, went to the bathroom to get rid of the condom and clean himself up, then got dressed in the paint-and-perspiration-smelling clothes he’d shed with such anticipation.

So he’d given her what she wanted—an orgasm that nearly took her head off. While he’d gotten something he didn’t want at all. A heart about as vulnerable as it had ever been, in a ridiculously short time frame. In all the years of dating Annie he didn’t think he’d ever felt this raw and open. At least not until she dumped him.

As soon as he was dressed, had his glass of water and said goodbye, he was out of there, taking his suddenly foolish and sentimental heart with him.

Because he really wasn’t into having it stomped on again.